(AN: This one's pretty NC-17, yeah. Also too long again, agh)
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The ceiling swims in and out of focus; Dan screws his eyes shut, frustrated.
This had all started with a handheld motor and a moment of inspiration, watching the gears ratchet forward and back, forward and back; an epiphany that’d found its home coiled low in his belly and in the dank, lizardy back of his brain. Three months later and he’s on his back in the workshop, naked from the waist down and strapped in for his own safety as six inches of silicone work their slippery way in and out of him, relentless.
Still, it isn’t enough. There’s something wrong with the speed or the force, and there are dials that control these things--that’s what he’s testing, a new algorithm for force, such a hard to pin down combination of hungry plunge and sharp-snap backstroke--but he can’t reach them like this and this is going to end with an unsatisfying jerk-off like it always does and he has never been so frustrated and he could just fucking scream or tear his hair out or--
Or open his eyes.
Rorschach, standing impossibly close, mask staring down at him impassively.
“...oh, shit,” he manages after a long moment, mechanical squelches filling out the silence but he isn’t even noticing anymore, because oh shit, why is Rors-- and how is-- what, who, how did this--
Rorschach bends at the waist, moves imperceptibly closer, and the blots on his mask have fanned out into liquid black wings, unreadable. He makes a choked noise as Dan rocks with an exceptionally forceful jolt, lifts one hand, and Dan’s sure it’s going to ball into a fist or maybe, some lunatic voice offers in his head, maybe Rorschach is reaching for him, to touch him...
The hand hangs--then settles, light as a feather, on one of the dials.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2011-03-08 04:36 am (UTC)-
The ceiling swims in and out of focus; Dan screws his eyes shut, frustrated.
This had all started with a handheld motor and a moment of inspiration, watching the gears ratchet forward and back, forward and back; an epiphany that’d found its home coiled low in his belly and in the dank, lizardy back of his brain. Three months later and he’s on his back in the workshop, naked from the waist down and strapped in for his own safety as six inches of silicone work their slippery way in and out of him, relentless.
Still, it isn’t enough. There’s something wrong with the speed or the force, and there are dials that control these things--that’s what he’s testing, a new algorithm for force, such a hard to pin down combination of hungry plunge and sharp-snap backstroke--but he can’t reach them like this and this is going to end with an unsatisfying jerk-off like it always does and he has never been so frustrated and he could just fucking scream or tear his hair out or--
Or open his eyes.
Rorschach, standing impossibly close, mask staring down at him impassively.
“...oh, shit,” he manages after a long moment, mechanical squelches filling out the silence but he isn’t even noticing anymore, because oh shit, why is Rors-- and how is-- what, who, how did this--
Rorschach bends at the waist, moves imperceptibly closer, and the blots on his mask have fanned out into liquid black wings, unreadable. He makes a choked noise as Dan rocks with an exceptionally forceful jolt, lifts one hand, and Dan’s sure it’s going to ball into a fist or maybe, some lunatic voice offers in his head, maybe Rorschach is reaching for him, to touch him...
The hand hangs--then settles, light as a feather, on one of the dials.